No need to feel guilty.
You deserve privacy.
I have to repeat this over and over and will surely do so again tonight, when I’m alone again and lying in my giant bed, staring up at the ceiling in my dumb giant bedroom inside my stupid giant McMansion.
“Noah?” She’s quiet now.
“Mm?”
“So before when those people were taking pictures, they weren’t taking them of themselves?” She shifts in her chair, and I can see that she’s uncomfortable. “I’m pretty sure they were taking them of you. Am I right?”
I swallow the piece of bread I’ve just set on my tongue, an answer to her question not finding its way out right away.
“Yes.”
She hesitates. “Why?”
Because I’m famous, except you’re the only one who hasn’t realized it, which means you’re here because you actually like me for who I am, and these fuckers have the potential to ruin the entire evening for us by being nosy.
Nope. Too harsh, can’t say it. Even though the onlookers with their prying eyes are making me nervous, and edgy, and I’m losing my patience—I still cannot say it.
“Maybe they were taking pictures of you?” I counter back, grinning.
“Why would they do that!” She laughs, amused, swirling the straw around her iced tea to occupy her hands.
“Because you’re so cute?” Oh my god, those words did not just come out of my mouth. I want to snatch them back, they feel so foreign, though the compliment did roll off my tongue pretty nicely.
Miranda stops swirling her tea around, a stunned expression filling her gorgeous face. “Did you just call me cute?”
“Yes.”
“Are you flirting with me while I’m trying to get to the bottom of this?”
It’s a mystery I can easily solve with an explanation, but now I’m having too much fun. “All I’m trying to do is get to the bottom of this glass, so I can have another one.”
“It’s iced tea,” she points out wryly, scanning the room again with her perceptive eyes. “That man over there is staring so hard I swear he wants you to notice him. He’s barely paying attention to his wife or whoever that lady is he’s with.”
Probably his wife.
I chuckle.
“Do you think this is funny?”
Wallace may have had a point when he told me, “Dude, if you stay home like a hermit and don’t go out in public, when you finally do, the media and fans will be so hungry for a picture of you it won’t be pleasant, and you’re going to hate yourself.”
He was right.
This is annoying and it sucks.
“No, I don’t think this is funny. But it happens all the time, which is why I sent my friend Wallace to get the baseball card from you.”
There, I finally fucking said it.
Sort of.
Miranda is silent, as if she’s picking apart the sentence, deciding which part to respond to. She chooses the first.
“What do you mean it happens all the time? You still haven’t told me what you do—is this because of your job? Are you on TV?” She groans. “Please do not tell me you’re the star of a reality TV show.” She feigns a gag.
“I’m not on a reality show.”
That she thinks I’m the type of guy who would do that? Laughable.
Like a police interrogator, I can see she’s determined to let the quiet stretch between us until it’s uncomfortable, or until I crack and start spilling my guts, whichever comes first.
We sit staring at one another until she raises an eyebrow.
Cocks her head. Sips at her tea.
Picks at the bread.
Dear god how long is she going to sit there not talking?
I clear my throat.
Adjust myself in my chair, rearrange the napkin on my lap.
Miranda sighs. “You’re really going to make me come out and ask?”
“Ask what?”
My date rolls her eyes. “What you do for a living that has everyone staring?”
“Not everyone is staring.” I can’t help myself. “That guy and that guy and that guy couldn’t care less.” They’re either blind and can’t see me sitting here or aren’t baseball fans.
“I’m not going to play guessing games with you, but you’re obviously on TV.”
True.
“I am on TV.” I’m proud of my career and everything I’ve built, so why is telling her so hard? It’s not like I’m bragging. It’s not like I’m trying to impress her. It’s just…facts. “I play baseball. For a living.”
The servers come and take our appetizer plates, replacing them with our entrees.
“For a living?” I see the wheels turning, a bit resistantly, it seems. “Like—professionally?”
I hold back a laugh, not wanting to piss her off. “Yes, professionally.”
“Like—how professional?” She’s got that pretty little head of hers cocked sideways at me again.
“As professional as it can get.”
Miranda blinks as if she’s not quite sure what that means. “What team?”
“Chicago Steam.”
Her lips twist in thought, making it hard to read her face. “What position?”
“Shortstop.”
“Shortstop.” She inhales. Exhales. “That’s a good position, isn’t it?”